


Look at us now (part 1)

by Swarms_of_crabs



Series: Look at us now [1]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Declarations Of Love, Drunken Kissing, Episode: s03e12-e13 The Sound of Drums/Last of the Time Lords, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, The Valiant (Doctor Who), The Year That Never Was (Doctor Who)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:27:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25565878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swarms_of_crabs/pseuds/Swarms_of_crabs
Summary: The last thing the Doctor expected when he was escorted to the Master's room, was to find him drunk and crying on his bedHe doesn't know what the Master has in store for him this time, but it can't be anything good... Right?Some sad fluffy Thoschei during the Year That Never Was, since we all know it happened.
Relationships: Tenth Doctor/The Master (Simm), The Doctor | Theta Sigma/The Master | Koschei (Doctor Who: Academy Era)
Series: Look at us now [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1852711
Comments: 13
Kudos: 55





	Look at us now (part 1)

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when a lesbian tries to write gay romance.

It had been at least a month since the release of the Toclafane. Since the Master's ascension. One month since the beginning of the end of the world.

Not that time seemed to pass in any rational way onboard the Valiant. Not for the Doctor, at least. Entire days seemed to flash by in an instant, while certain moments felt like they lasted eons. These moments were, if course, the moments when The Master visited him. Other than that, he spent the long days tuning himself to the Archangel's psychic Network. It was really a marvel that The Master hadn't noticed what he'd been doing, as he had always been considerably better at telepathy than the Doctor, even back at the Academy. 

But he didn't notice, and so the Doctor spent days at a time in his wheelchair, staring blankly out the window as his brain worked on full speed. It wasn't as if he could try to escape after all. Even if he could concoct a suitable plan, there was no way that this body would be able to manage any sort of complex or rigorous movements.

This silly, stupid body. He hated how old it was, how much it hurt and ached, how everything felt... diminished. The Doctor had never been too caught up in his looks, except for a brief stint in his sixth body, but this wasn't about looks. He felt powerless. His voice, which could once send armies running with a single word, was weak and hoarse. His legs, which used to be able to run for hours without needing a break, now failed to hold his own weight. He felt like part of his identity had been stripped from him, like part of his power had been stripped from him.

The Master knew this, if course. That was why he had done it. After all these years, the Master still loved the idea of having complete and utter power over his Doctor. And the Doctor knew that he knew. He knew that the Master would never kill him, no matter how many threats he made. It had become repetetive, after awhile. The two of them, orbiting each other like binary stars, fated to eternally circle each other, neither one winning, but neither every really losing, either. It was these thoughts, along with the thought that he would eventually escape this accursed ship and (if fortune smiled upon him) travel with the Master forevermore, that kept him sane over the long days, staring out at the wasteland that used to be the Earth.

That, and the occasional visits from the Master. Most of the time, these consisted of the Master taunting the Doctor, and the Doctor staring blankly out the window and pretending not to hear him. But occasionally, these interactions would take a different trajectory..

One stormy evening, two guards arrived in the Doctor's chambers. They were modest, but the Master had been kind enough to supply him a bed, a soft chair, and a small selection of his favorite Earth books. This, along with the wheelchair he had been provided with, only served to strengthen the Doctor's certainty that the Master didn't want to hurt him, only to assert his power.

The guards silently wheeled him out of his room, through the twisting halls of the Valient. He recognized the route. It was the route to the Master's private quarters. The Doctor silently prepared himself for more mockery and verbal abuse, but when they finally arrived, he was caught off guard by what he saw.

The normally immaculate room was, to put it lightly, a mess. The red silk bedspread was half on the floor, and the one of white pillows was stained with something that looked like scotch. The floor was littered with empty bottles, many of them broken. A few were expensive scotch and rum, but many seemed to be pure ethanol, which was poisonous to humans and still enough to leave a Time Lord unconscious on the floor, at least until their accelerated metabolism flushed it out in a matter of minutes.

The Master hadn't quite reached that level of intoxication, but he wasn't too far off. He lay on the dishevelled mattress, his usually crisp white shirt unbuttoned and hanging loosely at his sides. He was curled loosely into a fetal position, rocking back and forth. And he was laughing. Not the cold laugh of a calculating psychopath, nor the wild cackling of one deranged. It was quiet, and it was nothing more or less than the bitter laughing of a broken man. His hands were balled tightly in his short blond hair, and his eyes were squeezed shut. Despite this, tears streamed down his cheeks, dampening the pillow.

The Doctor thought he hadn't seen a sadder sight, not in all his centuries of traveling. This man. This beautiful, shining man. One who had conquered galaxies and brought kings to their knees. A genius, and the most beautiful person the Doctor had ever known, brought so low. Drunk and crying in his bed, laughing in the way only someone who had seen hell could laugh. 

He remembered a night. Thousands of years ago, galaxies away. The Doctor had met another boy that night, curled and crying in a bed of glowing violet flowers and red grass, staring at the cosmos with glazed eyes. He had comforted him then, and they had sat together, and the boy had been able to ignore the pounding of drums in his head.

But they were no longer children, and things had changed.

The Doctor briefly tried to rekindle their dormant psychic link, but he found that the Master was so drunk that he was unaware of his efforts, or else was just deliberately ignoring him.

He must have noticed something though, for one eye flicked open, taking in the Doctor and his two guards. His laughing stopped abruptly, and he mumbled something unintelligible.

you'redismissed

The guards looked at each other.  
"Excuse me, sir?" Asked one, cautiously.

The Master looked at him with glazed eyes, then lunged towards the guards, arms outstretched and eyes bloodshot.  
"I SAID GET OUT!!!"

The Doctor thought his attempt to be intimidating in such a state was rather pathetic, and his hearts ached in sympathy for the wreck on the mattress. His outburst was, however, enough to scare off the two men, who began to wheel the Doctor back out into the hallway 

"No!"  
The guards looked at each other again, visibly confused.  
"Leave him." He gestured at the Doctor.

The two men were apparently thrilled to leave, Doctor or no Doctor, and they nearly ran out of the room. The door hissed shut behind them. The Doctor was alone, in a room, with a madman. What else was new.

He opened his mouth to say something, to ask why he was here, maybe offer comfort, but his stupid elderly vocal chords decided not to respond. He tried again, but was cut short by the Master, who had grabbed his laser screwdriver off the bedside table and was pointing it directly at him, expression unreadable.

Before the Doctor could reason with him, he pressed a button and unimaginable pain rippled through the Doctors. For a minute, he wondered if the Master had finally snapped, finally decided to kill him in a drunken rage. 

But then he recognized the specific brand of pain he was feeling. Every cell in his body, altering itself and changing into something new. The Lazarus procedure.

And then, as suddenly as it had began, the pain stopped, and he was left gasping in the wheelchair.

He was back in his old body. Or rather, his young body. He was still panting from the pain of the transformation, but he could feel a new vigour in his limbs, and a new strength in his hearts. He pushed himself shaking to his feet, but his legs (once again long and startlingly skinny) gave out and he tumbled back into the chair.

The Master was staring at him with... Hate? Sadness? Desire? The Doctor couldn't tell. He hadn't seen the Master in so long, the map of his features that had once been etched into his brain had faded. 

But then the Master was advancing slowly towards him, and fear began to bubble up in the Doctor once again. Was this some new torture? The Master had refrained from hurting him thus far, but there was no doubt he was capable of hurting the Doctor, and even forcing him to regenerate (he never could look at radio towers the same way). It seemed out of character for the Master to hurt him, but he was drunk, and mad, and clearly not in his right mind. Anything could happen.

Though he was undoubtedly drunk out of his mind, the Master moved with unsettling steadiness as he approached the lanky man sitting in his now useless wheelchair. He slid off the bed, and stepped closer until he was looking directly down at the Doctor.

Then his legs crumpled, and he fell to his knees. He up at the Doctor, reached out with one shaking hand and gently, absurdly gently, cupped the Doctor's cheeck. His thumb brushed the skin just below his eye, and his breath hitched. 

"Your eyes are brown."

The Doctor was lost for words. A moment ago he had been scared for his life. Now here he was, and the Master was on his knees, caressing his face like they were kids again. He tried to speak.

"Wh-what?"

"Your eyes." The Master smiled faintly, as if calling upon some long gone pleasent memory. The Doctor hadn't seen him smile that beautifully in centuries. 

"They're brown. I haven't seen you with brown eyes since..." He paused, thinking. "Since your first face. Since the Academy."

The Doctor swallowed hard.

"Yes, well I suppose that it-" He was cut off when the Master's fingers brushed the exquisitely sensitive skin on his neck, the spot directly above the vein connecting to his respiratory bypass. He gasped slightly, tilting his head to the side despite himself. The Master closed his eyes, reveling in the noise he had elicited.

"Most of your past faces had blue eyes. And don't get me wrong, they were beautiful. I especially liked your fifth. He was so pretty, with the nice blond hair and that silly jacket. But... I've missed your brown eyes."

He continued to caress the Doctor's face and neck with feather-light touches, exploring the unfamiliar curves and contours of his latest regeneration. The Doctor wanted to resist, wanted to ask what the Master was doing. But... He hadn't been touched like this in such a very long time. And wasn't that good? If the Master was acting like this, maybe there was a chance he would stop, maybe things could go back to the way they were. The Doctor knew this was wishful thinking, but it didn't stop him hoping.

"Do you remember night we met?" Asked the Master. His hand was now carding gently through the Doctor's hair, and the Doctor closed his eyes, sighing slightly. 

"It was the night of our initiations. I was so scared... Scared of the drums. But you found me, and you told me I'd be okay, that the drums didn't mean I had to forget who I was. We sat together." His voice was controlled, impressively so, considering his current state of inebriation. But then his hand trembled against the Doctor's face, and the wistful expression on his face transformed to one of despaired anguish.

"You said I didn't need to let them overwhelm me but... I did. I couldn't stop. No matter where I am, what I'm doing, the drums are there, telling me to hurt and kill and conquer and..." He pressed his eyes shut. "I tried to block them out, I really did. But they're always there, drilling against my skull. I don't dream anymore. Whenever I close my eyes, there they are. Alcohol helps quiet them, sometimes. It's odd. I actually feel more in control of myself now than when I was sober. But they always come back. They drown out everything. Everything! And I can't remember who I'm supposed to be anymore." The look in his eyes was pleading, desperate. "Please Doctor. Who am I?"

"Mas-"

"NO!" He slammed his fist against the floor. "You don't get it. I'm not the Master. The drums... The drums made me the Master.. Look at me. Do I look like anyone's Master?"

The Doctor looked, and found he was right. The man in front of him was many things, good and bad. But he couldn't look further from a figure of authority.

He shook his head.

"Please Doctor, tell me you know who I am. I've forgotten. You said you'd always help, no matter what. I need your help. Please."

The Doctor sucked in a breath, then shakily released it.

"Koschei." The name dredged up memories of sunny afternoons hiding from teachers, running through red grass, and sharing shy, tender kisses underneath silver trees. The world had been so wonderful and full of potential back then. Back in the days when they could laugh and talk and play together without any chance of attempted murder.

The Master seemed to be thinking about those days as well. His gaze fixed once again on a far off point, and his eyes began to glisten with tears. He reached up to the Doctor once again, this time gently gripping his jaw. He looked at him so lovingly, the Doctor suddenly thought he would do anything for the wonderful, brilliant man kneeling before him.

"Theta. My Theta" He whispered. His thumb traced small circles in the Doctor's skin, before stilling and once again dropping to his lap. The Doctor made a small noise of frustration at the loss of contact.

"No." It wasn't a yell, or even a whisper. It was spoken firmly and quietly, and when the Master looked back up, the Doctor saw some of the familiar fire had returned to his gaze.

"No." He repeated. "That boy is dead. He died a long time ago. I can't go back, don't you see? It's all gone now. The Academy, Gallifrey," his voice broke slightly. "Us."

The Doctor cut him off. "It's not over." 

The Master chuckled dryly. "Of course it is. You killed them all. Gallifrey's gone."

The Doctor realized he was still sitting in the wheelchair, and he slid to the floor, so that he was face to face with the Master. They stared into each other's eyes for a few heartbeats.

"Not Gallifrey. Us."

He grabbed the Master's head in both hands and kissed him full on the mouth. The Master stiffened, then relaxed into him. The Doctor tried to pour all his unspoken emotions into the kiss, and the Master was reciprocating, wrapping his arms around the Doctor's thin waist. Strong wirey arms pulled him closer, until he was almost sitting in the Master's lap. 

He felt a presence pushing faintly against his mental barriers and so he lowered them cautiously. Despite his inebriation, the Master was still able to forge a weak psychic link between them. The Doctor shouldn't have been surprised. Even in this state, the Master was still a more powerful psychic. The Doctor moved his fingers to the Master's temples, widening and strengthening the connection, and then their emotions were flowing into each other, and the Doctor could feel his confused mixture of love and pain and desperation, all punctuated by the ever-present faint drumbeats. It was messy and passionate and gentle and comforting and perfect, and it was all over far too soon. 

There they sat, on the glass-strewn floor, eyes closed, foreheads pressed together and hands on each other's temples. They didn't speak. They didn't need to. There were so words or actions that could possibly be as intimate as the sharing of your thoughts with another person. But then a plea came from the Master's mind, breaking through the love and affection flowing between them.

_Say my name_

The Doctor was confused, and he shared that feeling with the Master.

_Say it out loud. Please. If you still love me, I need you to tell me you still know who I am._

The Doctor looked around

_Someone could hear!_

_I ordered them to leave. If they're still listening, I'll just kill them._

The Doctor disapproved.

_You can't just go killing anyone who-_

_Don't start._

_I just... Don't know if it's on a good idea._

_Please. I need this._

And then, scarcely louder than a whisper, the Doctor whispered his name. It seemed to linger in the air, even after the Doctor had stopped speaking. It was a word so strange and powerful that it cannot possibly be written in this or any other language, save the language of the Time Lords, in all it's lilting and musical glory. It was a word that had no other meaning other than _him_. It was every moment of his existence, past, present, and future. It was all his strengths and all his shortcomings and everything else about him, from his first looming to his final death.

Upon hearing it, a shiver of light seemed to pass through the Master, and his grip on the Doctor tightened. And then he fell into him, and he was crying, and the Doctor was holding him in his arms like he had so many times. His head was pressed into the Doctor's pinstriped shoulder, and he wept like a child. He was happier than he'd been in centuries, and he was torn apart by the agony of what could have been. 

And then he raised his head to the Doctor's ear and whispered his true name. And the Doctor shuddered and clung to him. Love and pain and grief and regret and longing flooded through their link. They clung together like it was the only thing keeping them alive, and it might well have been. 

The Drums had gone silent. For a moment, one wonderful, shining moment, they weren't the Doctor and the Master, enemies locked in a neverending battle through time. They weren't Theta and Koschei either, those two starry eyed children who looked at the sky and dreamed of escape. They were just... Them. In their purest forms. Two beings of light and time, intertwined in a vast empty ocean of darkness.

_I'm sorry._

_I forgive you._

_I've missed you._

I've missed you too.

_I was wrong._

_So was I._

A beat of silence. There really was no need for words. Their emotions flowed between them like water from one end of a lake to the other. The Doctor briefly wondered if it was possible to love someone this much without being able to feel their thoughts and emotions. He didn't think so. 

He loved Martha, of course. Just like he had loved Rose, and Ace, and Peri, and all of them before. But... that was different. They had all been kind, bright young men and women who he would gladly have given his life for. But he would give more than his life for the Master. He would sacrifice his morals, his ideals, the very rules he lived by. If the Master had chosen a planet other than Earth, well... He didn't like to think about that.

The Master could feel his reluctance through their bond, and sent him a brief questioning thought. The Doctor removed his hands from the Master's temples and pulled back, weakening their psychic link.

"Release the Earth. Please." He said outloud, and his voice sounded loud and hoarse after the prolonged silence.

The Master sucked in a breath and opened his eyes. They were shining with tears.

"My beautiful Doctor. You know I can't do that."

He opened his mouth to argue, to say that he always had a choice. That they could call off the Toclafane and run away together, like they'd promised to so long ago.

But then he stopped. They'd had this conversation before, and they'd probably have it again. Just this once, the Doctor wanted to forget about the Earth, forget his responsibilities and his debts to the universe, and enjoy this moment with his Master.

"Yeah. I suppose so."

The Master's eyes widened slightly in surprise, but then he smiled, a familiar touch of playful wickedness in his expression.

"Good boy."

The Doctor tensed slightly at the use of the diminutive. It wasn't bad, just... Unfamiliar.

The Master reached out to stroke his cheek. His hand lingered there, caressing the smooth skin, before moving on to press once again into the Doctor's temples. He relaxed again, pressing slightly into the Master's touch

_Kiss me Theta_

_Of course._

And so he did.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Part two should be coming soon, and I think I'll make it a separate work within the same series, since it might become a full on series In the mean time, check out my other works! Or don't. I can't make you do anything.
> 
> Either way thanks for reading, comments and critiques are more than welcome, as always.


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